"Wary?" Creed's laugh rang with sarcasm. "Ah, bon—that's good. That's very good, Sheriff. A lot of help against a lunatic like Pierre LaRousse." A freight wagon lumbered past them, nearly running them down, but neither man budged.
"You got a better idear?" Fox asked with a sneer.
"Oui. Keep this note to yourself. Seth and Miss Parsons plan to marry next week. This will put a kink in things and I don't want that to happen. I'll watch her. If LaRousse is close by, who better than me to find him? He'll be looking for me."
"All right. If he is close by, you'd be wise to stay around people. It's hard for a bastard like that to make a move in a crowd. I'll let my deputy know about it and tell him to keep his eyes peeled." He stuck his hand out to Creed in a gesture of truce. "Okay?"
"Okay."
Fox nodded and started off for the cafe. "Better get you another pair of eyes, son," he called over his shoulder. "In the back of yer head."
Creed fingered the handle of his gun. "Right."
* * *
"Of course, I'll help you in the store," Mariah told Seth indignantly, pushing away from the dill pickle barrel she'd been leaning against. "Don't be silly." She picked up a feather duster and started to work on the tall shelves full of tinned fruit, milk, and meats.
Seth watched the fabric of her shirt pull tightly across her back and outline her breasts in profile. Without thought, his body quickened with desire. It seemed all he had to do was look at her and he started acting like a foolish schoolboy. It was funny how their roles had reversed. In many ways, she was the same girl he remembered back in Chicago—stubborn, willful... but the young girl who'd trailed after him like a faithful puppy was gone. Now, the woman she'd become was much more appealing. Though he'd loved her always, what he felt for her now bore no resemblance to the fraternal feelings he'd harbored in the early years.
"Look at these shelves," Mariah scolded, waving away the dust drifting down beneath her feather duster. "When was the last time you dusted?"
"Merchandise moves too fast to gather much dust," he argued, frowning at the cloud.
"Well, the shelves are enough to give a person an attack of asthma!"
"Oddly enough, none of the miners who patronize my store have mentioned it. Now, Mariah..." he told her firmly, "Don't try to change the subject. I won't have my wife working behind a counter. I didn't bring you all the way out here so you could—"
"You didn't bring me here at all. I insisted on coming, remember?"
He squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "True, but—"
"And if you'd had your way," she went on, sweeping dust off the neatly stacked shelves, "you would have had me wait another four years before I saw you again."
He laughed and shook his head. "As I recall, you were all but on the train to St. Louis by the time I could answer your letter, informing me of the time and place to meet you. True?"
She sniffed. "Well, yes, but I knew you'd say no if I gave you half a chance."
He walked up behind her and took her shoulders between his hands. His breath was warm against her ear. "It wasn't for lack of wanting you, Mari... I've missed you like the devil. It was knowing you were coming that kept me going through that fever." His lips brushed her throat and she stiffened.
"Seth—"
. "God," he whispered, trailing moisture along her neck with his lips. "You're so beautiful."
"Seth..." She wiggled out of his hands. "Don't."
He pulled back and regarded her seriously. "I'm sorry. I'm rushing things again, I know."
"No. No, it... it's not that." She toyed with the feathers on the duster, unable to look him in the eye. "It's just... what if customers walked in and saw us like that? What in the world would they think?"
"They'd probably think I'm a lucky so-and-so... which I am." He sighed, taking a step back. "But that doesn't change how I feel about your working here. This is hard work and you're not up to—"
Her eyes flashed up to his in challenge. "Hard work? This? Riding halfway across Montana, ten hours a day on the back of a horse, fording rivers... making coffee... now that's hard work. This?"—she gestured at the stock-laden shelves and mining tools hanging from the walls of Travers' Mercantile—"this is a cinch."
He crossed his arms. "No."
She crossed hers. "Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"You two having a lover's quarrel so soon?"
Mariah jumped at the sound of Creed's deep voice. He was leaning on the door jamb, his arms against his chest. Her heart rose to her throat and lodged there. He looked tired. His eyes were bloodshot and he'd nicked his freshly shaven jaw in two places. It seemed he'd slept no better than she.
He flipped open the lid of his pocket watch and shook his head. "Let's see, what's that? Sixteen hours and thirty-five minutes," he said lightly. "Not bad."
"We are not having a lover's quarrel," she retorted, folding her arms. "Are we, Seth?"
Seth rolled his eyes for Creed's benefit. "Hell's bells! I told you she was stubborn, didn't I?"
"Stubbornness has nothing to do with it. He just thinks I'm too delicate to work in his store." She made a face to tell them both what she thought.
Creed snorted and slid his hat off.
"What's wrong with 'delicate'?" Seth asked, genuinely confused.
"Nothing," she replied, "if you're a china teacup. I'm a grown woman. And I won't break from a little exertion! Exactly what do you propose I'd do all day while you're here working, Seth? Twiddle my thumbs? Stroll down the muddy street and windowshop for pickaxes?...Goldpans? Perhaps a new flannel shirt to complete my wardrobe?" She hiked up her trousers and yanked against the rope belt. "You're the one who's being stubborn. Tell him, Creed."
Creed hid a grin and rubbed his jaw.
Seth scowled. "Don't involve Creed in our disagreement, Mari. This has nothing to do with him."
"Oh? He is part owner, isn't he?" she pointed out. "You are a partner—isn't that what you said last night?"
Creed's eyes dueled devilishly with hers. "Silent partner."
"Now there's a redundant statement," she muttered, plucking at a loose thread on the sleeve of her shirt.
He pushed lazily away from the door and strolled toward her. "You shouldn't provoke the only man in the room who's on your side, Mariah."
She looked up in surprise. "Are you? On my side, I mean?"
Creed glanced at Seth, who was frowning over the whole exchange. "Actually, yes. I think it would be a good idea to let her work here with you, mon ami."
Seth unfolded his arms. "Judas priest, Creed—"
"Think about it. You can use the extra help, she's willing, and it will keep her out of trouble. And God knows," he said, glancing at her, "she knows how to find that." He forced a grin to one corner of his mouth.
Mariah pressed her lips together to refrain from retorting. Well, she could hardly argue with him after everything they'd been through, though she did think it unfair to blame it all on her. After all, hardly any of it had been her fault!
"Granted," Seth admitted with a chuckle, smoothing down his mustache with his thumb and first finger. "But I had in mind something more... domestic, Mari. Such as staying at home... having our babies."
An uncomfortable silence filled the air. Creed looked pointedly at the floor and rubbed his temple. A picture of Mariah with babies playing around her flashed through his mind. But the little girl nearest her leg had thick, dark hair and startling blue-green eyes. The image made him inhale sharply and stare out the open door.
"You know... babies?" Seth interjected into the lengthening pause. "Small people who say 'goo, goo—gah, gah?'"
Mariah twisted her fingers together and tried to laugh. "Babies... of course... there will be plenty of time for that, Seth. We're not even married yet, for heaven's sake. I'm simply talking about right now. You're still not fully recovered from your illness. You need me here."
Creed shrugged with feigned indifference.
"She's right, you know. And I can help you out with some of the heavy work. Until the wedding, at least."
Seth and Mariah spoke in unison. "You're staying?"
He nodded. "Yeah, just until the wedding."
"Well, for crying out loud, when were you going to tell us? That's wonderful, Creed," Seth said, pumping his hand. "I can't imagine getting hitched without you there. Mari, isn't that wonderful?"
Mariah cleared her throat, her face flushed—not with pleasure, but a kind of dull, foreboding shock. "Yes, um... we're both so glad you'll be there."
Creed gave what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug. "A week either way won't change much."
Seth clapped him on the shoulder earnestly. "Good. Then after the shop closes up, I'll take you both to the site I picked out to build our house."
The house. Pardieu, Creed swore silently. He'd almost forgotten the house Seth started drawing up plans for when he'd gotten word Mariah was coming. A house for the two of them to build a life together as man and wife.
"You're building a house?" Mariah asked.
"We. We're building one. It'll take a little time to build, but you're going to love it, Mari. I've incorporated some of the latest amenities in the design like running hot water, a built-in bathtub framed in cherry wood. It's all on order from St. Louis. Until then, we'll have to make do with the little apartment I have here."
"That's... that's wonderful, darling. I can hardly wait to see the plans." She turned to fuss with something on the counter that didn't need straightening.
"All right, then. I'll see you later," Creed answered, settling his hat back on his head. "Keep your eye on her, eh, mon ami?"
Seth grinned with the smitten look of a man in love. "I will. Hey, get some rest today, Creed," Seth advised, "You're looking a little rough around the edges."
Creed rolled his eyes as he continued out the door, waving a silent goodbye. The sunshine made his head throb but he refrained from holding it between his hands.
Le bon Dieu, he wished the cost of oblivion wasn't so painful.
Down the street, he heard the sound of men's voices spilling out of The Bale of Hay saloon. The thought of a little 'hair of the dog that bit him' didn't set well with his queasy stomach, so he veered toward Dillard's Cafe. He'd have breakfast and some strong coffee. He needed a clear head if he was going to—
Creed came to a halt in the ankle deep mud as if he'd slammed up against an imaginary wall. No particular sound or motion confirmed his reaction—only the familiar warning tingle at the back of his neck that had his heart pounding. One hand automatically dropped to unhook the safety strap on his revolver. He whirled around, half-expecting to feel the burn of a bullet plowing into him.
A freight wagon rolled noisily by him, loaded with lumber from the south. Creed pushed along the length of it with his hand as it passed, glad for the momentary cover.
Against the skeletal backdrop of the half-finished town, the street behind him was crowded with men, wagons, horses, and a half-dozen mongrels sniffing at the refuse gathering in the street corners. The ever-present din of hammers and saws echoed in the clear morning air.
Creed searched the faces of the men behind him—the hopefuls, the philanderers, the cynics, and the dreamers... all of them emigres to Virginia nurturing dreams of gold. Their reasons for leaving their pasts behind were as varied as their faces. But they all had one thing in common:
None bore the slightest resemblance to the half-breed devil, Pierre LaRousse.
Creed exhaled slowly, sliding his gun fully back in its leather cradle, and cast one more quick glance around him. Nothing. The term 'sitting duck' came to mind and he swore silently. Perhaps it was just nerves. Perhaps not.
Clamping a hand to his temple, he rubbed it and headed for the cafe. If he was going to be a target, he preferred to be one with a clear head.
* * *
One hundred yards away, atop the flat, false-fronted roof of Lott Brothers' Emporium, Pierre LaRousse looked down the barrel of his shiny Spencer Repeater Rifle until the sight leveled on Creed Devereaux's forehead. His finger tightened over the coil-action trigger, feeling the spring give in fractional clicks.
"Boom."
"What in Hades are you waitin' for?" muttered Downing, who was crouching beside him. He shot a nervous glance around them and shoved the dirty tail of his duster out of the way of his holster. "You got him dead to rights, Pierre. Just... do it and let's go."
LaRousse's mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. He eased his finger off the trigger. "No."
Downing stared at him as if he'd just lost his mind. "No? Whadya mean no? I thought that was why—"
"No." LaRousse turned and pressed his back against the wooden wall of the false-fronted building. His shoulder length black hair curtained his face. "Ees too quick. Too easy. But,"—he chuckled, watching Devereaux turn and continue on down the street—"I could 'ave killed 'eem just now. Did you see?"
Downing looked at him oddly. "Yeah, I saw."
"Eet was beautiful, no?"
"No." Downing slumped beside him, scratching his arms. "I want to get out of here, goddammit. This town gives me the crawlin' jitters."
The half-breed eased the hammer down on his gun with an ominous click. "Perhaps you 'ave lost your nerve, mon ami."
"This ain't a game, Pierre," Downing nearly shouted. "They got them WANTED dodgers tacked up ever' which way, with our faces plastered all over 'em. The longer we stay here, the better the odds somebody's gonna recognize us. And in case it ain't come to yore attention, we ain't as many as we used to be. Devereaux took care of that."
Pierre's black eyes took on the cold glint of malachite. "My attention?" He ripped the neck of his buckskin shirt open to reveal his bandaged left shoulder. "You zink I could forget thees? You zink I could forget what 'ee did to Étienne, or to my father? Saaa-aa! You 'orse's ass! I forget nothing."
Downing sat back in a silent stew, staring at the bottomless blue sky overhead. For the second time since their close escape by the river four days ago, he had the feeling of impending doom. Pierre was becoming more and more irrational.
He was the one who'd come up with the harebrained scheme of following Devereaux into Virginia City—dogging his trail into this booby trapped hellhole that boasted one of the strongest vigilance committees this side of the Mississippi. The same town where only months ago they lynched every living member of Henry Plummer's Innocents Gang, except, he mused uncomfortably, the ones they didn't find. Hell, it was only a matter of time before it all caught up with them.
He scraped a boot heel irritably against the wood-shingled roof. He should'a left that night Pierre rode up behind him, bleedin' all over himself. He should'a rode off and not looked back. That business with the Lochries had turned his stomach and watchin' the pleasure Pierre took out of tormenting that old bounty hunter, Kraylor, hadn't done much for his appetite neither.
Even though he'd had no actual hand in either one of those killin's and only one of the others of which they'd been accused, he'd been ridin' with LaRousse too long to come off smellin' like anything but stinkweed.
Pierre got to his feet and headed toward the back of the roof where the ladder was pitched against the alley wall.
Downing scowled, getting up slowly to follow. Past was past and the truth was—it pained him to admit it—he had nowhere else to go.
Except straight to hell.
Chapter 20
Four days.
Four hellish days since they rode into town, Creed thought, watching Mariah hesitate, then lean over the counter to kiss Seth goodbye on the cheek.
"I won't be long," she told him. Seth trapped her hands and pulled her closer to give her a kiss of his own.
Creed's grip tightened around the iron-rimmed hogshead full of crockery he was rolling across the floor and anger pumped through him like a fast-working poison. Dammit, what had made him think he could go through with this farce? Four days of working side by side, the three of them... together. He s
ighed in frustration. It would be laughable if only he could find the humor in the situation.
His gaze roved over the glove-like way Mariah's new gingham dress fit her—smooth and tight around waist, breast, and wrist, a layer of petticoats hiding her rounded bottom. The sight of her in proper woman's clothes stirred his blood and made it damned hard to concentrate on work.
"Maybe I should walk you down there," Seth suggested as she swept the apron over her head and slipped into a woven shawl. He rounded the counter, his persistent cough shaking his shoulders. "I don't like you walking unescorted."
"I'm just going to Emaline Fitzwilly's shop for a fitting," Mariah said, tying the black ribbon on her new straw bonnet. "I have to pick up the gown for the party tonight and have the last fitting for the... um, wedding gown." Her eyes flicked to Creed's, then quickly away. "Besides, it's only a few doors down."
"The end of the block."
"Seth's right." Creed said, straightening. "Let him walk you down there."
Mariah frowned at them. "You both have your hands full with this new shipment. I can certainly find my way to the end of the—"
Creed tilted the hogshead to the floor with a thud. "I'll take her."
Her face reddened. "You will not! Look, you two, if I'm going to live in this town, I'd better get used to walking around like everyone else."
"Everyone else isn't a woman." Creed moved a stack of pickaxe handles out of his way and watched that peculiar stubborn glint light her topaz eyes.
"You act as if I should be afraid of my own shadow," she argued. "The miners I've met have been nothing but gentlemen to me. You two give me more trouble than all of them combined."
Providence sent Jason Bender barreling through the door at that moment. "Hi, Seth, Creed." He stumbled to a stop at the sight of Mariah. "Oh, h'llo, Miss Parsons. Gosh, you look... awful pretty today, ma'am. I mean, you always look pretty, but today you look 'specially... that is..." His voice drifted off into an embarrassed mumble.
"Why, thank you, Jason," she said, with a pointed look at the two men. "I'm glad someone noticed I'm not in buckskins anymore."
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